


Two Pieces of the Gallows

by nigeltde



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Fuck Or Die, M/M, PWP, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 02:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5566114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigeltde/pseuds/nigeltde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam fucks up. Dean has to deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Pieces of the Gallows

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Swap Meat. Title nicked from Bill Callahan's My Friend.

There's a crash to Dean's left and he shoots the witch in the head and shoots a glance over to where his brother is and Sam looks at him with wide frightened eyes, hands held out helplessly, broken bottle dripping blood and some other kind of steaming liquid.

That smell.

“Shut your eyes.”

“Too late,” Sam whispers. He looks like he's been gutted, face pale in shock.

“Well shut them anyway!” Dean barks. This is impossible. He looks around, desperately, like there's a solution to hand in this hovel.

And while his brain is refusing to countenance the possibility that Sam has been so monumentally dumb as to ruin them like this by a) getting doused by a love potion and b) looking at Dean first thing thereafter, his body is throwing Sam a rag to wrap his hands and digging the can of kerosene out of his bag. 

“Out!” He yells at Sam, and points to the door. Sam stumbles on the step and Dean's heart is black with fury.

He's gonna burn this place to the ground, and then he's gonna kick his brother's ass.

They sit in the front seat of the car and watch it go up. Sam has washed his own hands and changed his own shirt, which was also splashed, and patched up the cut on his palm. It wasn't very deep. It was enough, Dean can guess.

“What was in that bottle, Sam?” he says, keeps his voice even.

Sam stares at him and doesn't seem to register that he's even said anything.

Three days. Three days since Dean got his brother back, the latest in a long line of losses and bare-knuckle recoveries, and now he's gonna lose him again and this time it's going to be for real and there's nothing he can do about it. He's never gonna see Sam again after tonight.

“You got a drink?”

Dean hands over his flask. Sam takes a swig and runs it through his mouth a few times before swallowing. It seems to wake him up a little.

“I think about three hours,” he says, conversationally. “That's what my research was saying. It's not meant to be a 'best served cold' kind of thing. Usually a bit longer but blood contact is probably more effective. Wouldn't you say?”

“Shut the fuck up, Sam.”

“I won't be. I won't be around for all of it, though. Maybe one and a half, two hours, functionally.” 

“I said shut the fuck up.” Dean turns the key in the ignition. “Put your seatbelt on.”

Sam takes another swig, shrugs indifferently.

This bitch lived out in the boonies and it took them an hour to get there. Dean knocks twenty minutes off that, forty miles of dirt road sliding under his car's wheels. Sam's breathing is getting faster. His hands make little involuntary movements in the corner of Dean's eye. He looks out the passenger window the whole way back. 

So _now_ he won't look at Dean. Perfect. Always on the fucking ball, Dean's brother.

Sam gives him a wide berth getting back to the room. Dean points to the bed and he sits obediently. Their research is still spread around and Dean picks up a book and throws it in his lap and goes to the bathroom.

He washes his face and sets up a little panic station for himself, hands clutching basin, knuckles as white as the ceramic. He can't believe this is happening to him again. On watch for the apocalypse and this has snuck right up behind and gored him deep and irreversible, heart's blood arterial spray. Let Sam die or let Sam go.

Sam calls from the other room.

“Dean, I gotta. I wanna say something.”

Dean heads back into the room. Sam has set the book aside neatly. He's flushed already, spots of colour high on his cheeks. Dean grabs his flask out of his jacket and tosses it to him.

“Drink,” he says, and cracks the bottle in his bag, takes a couple of big burning swallows himself.

“Dean, what are you...Listen to me. I want you to go to Bobby's.”

“Drink.”

Sam takes a fairsize gulp and Dean nods in satisfaction and downs a bit more himself. Gonna be hard to judge this right. He needs it to hit quick but if he goes too far too fast he's not gonna be able to get it up.

“Dean, this has been. I need you to know,” Sam says. He's looking at his hands, now. Dean has always found his fingers elegant. He likes watching his brother leaf through books. It's a sickness. 

He never thought it would be useful.

“Are you listening?” Sam asks. Dean takes another drink and looks at the ceiling, considers the light situation. He can't have the room lights on. The thought makes his stomach turn, too exposed. And the dark...the dark would be a disaster. He has to be accountable. But if he leaves a lamp on will Sam think he's trying to be romantic or something?

“These last few years,” Sam says, and Dean points at his flask, and he takes a drink. He's just humouring Dean now. “It's been. I know we've had trouble but. You're my brother– ”

Dean cringes.

“Shut up,” he says. He strides to the switch panel by the door and bangs at it until he gets the lamp by Sam's bed on and the main lights off. The curtains are closed. He locks the door and turns around and shucks his jacket.

Sam stares at him, eyes wide, mouth open.

“Dean,” he says, note of warning.

“Shut it,” Dean says. He pushes his sleeves up his arms and claps his hands together bracingly, looks around. This room is even less helpful than that bitch's hovel. 

“Don't even think about it.”

“Oh what, and let you die? Because of some _witch_? No. Whatever you wanna do after, that's fine, wherever you wanna go, if you wanna bury me, that's cool.”

Sam's chest is heaving, his back rigid, his feet planted firmly on the floor. It'd be working on him pretty hard by now, Dean would guess, and if Dean doesn't get him sorted soon they're both at risk, but he seems to have it under wraps for the moment.

“Dean, no. I'd never ask you.”

“Who's asking? Nah. This is easy man, come on. It's nothing. You're not a virgin. I'm sure as hell not.”

“You can't. You have no idea. You need to go,” Sam says, and winces. It's paining him. Give it half an hour and he'll be seizing, much longer after that he'll claw his own throat open. If he can't get to Dean.

“Get rid of your jacket,” Dean says, and makes a hurry-up gesture. “Come on man, we don't got all night.”

Sam stares more. Puts his hands hesitantly to the front of his jacket and hangs on there.

“I wouldn't. I wouldn't ever if it wasn't like this.”

That's nothing Dean doesn't know. He takes another drink, steps by where Sam's sitting and puts the bottle down solidly on the bedside table, turns and looks at Sam's back. Sam is staring at the door. He wouldn't get far if he tries to leave. 

His head bows, and his jacket comes off, shoulders working stiffly, reluctantly. 

Dean loses his flannel and toes off his boots and heads back to the table to grab his bag. Sam flinches noticeably as he walks past. 

A guy could get an ego.

He throws his bag on the floor in arm's reach of the bed and flicks his fingers at Sam. 

“Shuffle up.”

Sam buries his face in his hands. 

“This isn't fair,” he says, miserably, and that makes it simple for Dean. Sam's hurting. He can fix this.

“Shuffle up, Sam, come on. First aid, man. Easy fixed. It'll be over in five.”

Sam lowers his hands, keeps his head bowed. Hitches himself up the bed until he's sitting in the middle. 

He's hard in his jeans, big and obvious. It can't be comfortable.

“Lie back,” Dean says, keeps his voice bullying and matter-of-fact, and Sam whimpers, doubles over.

“Dean,” he whines, and two steps and Dean's by his side, sitting next to his hip. He pushes at Sam's shoulder and Sam goes back without much resistance. As he goes his eyes lock to Dean's and they're creased with pain and black with a deep dark burn of desire.

Dean's mouth goes dry and his heart hammers wildly in his chest. Dean's been looked at a lot in his life and often by someone with fucking on their mind but never like this, never by someone with near-perfect knowledge of Dean, never by Sam, the most important object in Dean's universe. It sets off a bomb somewhere deep in him, ringing in his ears. 

Unspeakable, the things Sam does to him.

“Close your eyes,” he says, a little hoarse, and Sam obeys. He's squirming now, and it's very difficult for Dean to take his belt off without it looking like his hands are shaking, or like he's trying to molest his little brother through his jeans.

He puts his hand on Sam's fly and Sam whines again, hips jumping up, needy and suppressed. 

“Just imagine some bar chick or something.”

“Yeah, the six-foot bar chick with hands like a carpenter,” Sam grits, nose wrinkled in a slight sneer. Even like this he can find time to think Dean's an idiot. Dean doesn't know what he's going to do without him. 

“That's the one,” Dean says, and undoes his fly, pulls his jeans and boxers carefully down, sets his dick springing free. 

He's huge. Dean's not really sure what to do with that information. He averts his eyes and pulls Sam's boots off, strips him naked his bottom half. He looks up and Sam has a hand over his face again like he can make the whole night disappear.

Dean usually has nothing but disdain for people who won't face up to the truth when it's staring them in the eye but in this instance he figures Sam earns a pass. Not every day you gotta let a family member touch your dick.

He sits back down by Sam's side, feet on the ground, keeps his body turned away. He puts his hand around the base of Sam's dick and Sam whimpers and grabs his wrist in a grip like steel.

“Wait.”

“It's okay. I'll make it good,” Dean says. Sam's dick is hot and silky. He thinks he might be able to feel Sam's pulse in the vein running up. He thinks he might be losing it a little. 

Sam grimaces, teeth bared like there's a bad taste in his mouth.

“If I say anything,” he says, haltingly. “Whatever happens here stays here, you promise.”

Dean nods solemnly.

“This is a safe space, Sam.”

“Oh, I hate you,” Sam mutters, and lets him go, fists his hands in the blanket. Dean should have turned the covers down. This is probably gonna make a mess.

“I know,” he says, and starts moving his hand. Aside from his breathing, shallow and irregular, Sam is holding himself still and dead. It doesn't speak well of Dean's ability and he doesn't like it. He varies his pace, faster a couple of strokes, slower, tightens the pressure on the downstroke. Sam's eyes screw tighter closed and his mouth drops open a little, tongue darting out to wet his lips. 

Dean lets him go, spits on his hand and starts up again, watches his brother tip his head back, stretch out his neck.

“Dean,” he says, small and broken. Dean could get used to hearing his name sound like that. He probably shouldn't.

“It's not Dean. It's Toni the bar chick.”

“Oh my god.” Sam shakes his head, small shocks of amusement battling the arousal.

“You prefer Tony the bar dude?” Dean says, and Sam gasps and bucks up hard into his hand, and Dean goes right off the tracks, freefall scarring tumble into dangerous territory. He's hard, dick throbbing in his jeans.

“You ever done that, Sam?” He asks, hushed, and Sam's hips are moving now, shifting fitfully up to meet his hand. “You ever gone into the bathroom with a guy?”

Sam shakes his head again. His hair is sticking dark to his face and spreading out on the pillow, flush running down his neck under the shade of stubble there.

“You ever wanted to?”

Sam bites his bottom lip and Dean can feel his answer in the way his dick pulses, the way his heels start scrabbling for purchase.

“It's not so bad,” Dean says, and Sam's eyes fly open and lock on him. Dean can't breathe. The room disappears. “If you find the right one it's pretty good actually.”

Sam's mouth works silently a moment, wordless, gaze turning hot and flinty. Dean's hand falters.

“Yeah?” Sam bites out eventually, and Dean swallows.

“Wouldn't be hard for you. The way you look.” The way Sam looks is currently blowing Dean's mind, and he wipes his face with his free hand, picks up his pace again, stares at his fingers wrapped around Sam's dick, working the end, the head appearing and disappearing.

“Yeah,” he whispers, answering a question no one asked. “You could find someone easy. Take him in the bathroom or round the back. Get him on his knees.” 

“Jesus.” Sam bucks up again and Dean jerks him long and fast a couple of strokes as a reward.

“Lotta guys are good at that.” 

Sam makes some kind of wild noise and he's still got Dean pinned under his gaze, deadly focus. Dean's eyes feel huge and his mouth is running without his permission.

“Lotta guys would let someone like you fuck their mouths.” 

Sam's jaw drops, lips parting and his tongue behind them for Dean to see and his thighs roll as well, like he's trying to open himself up more for Dean. He's leaking pre-come, Dean's hand nice and slick and moving easy. He's so hard. Dean doesn't know how he's coping. He twists a little, thumbs under the head.

Sam is breathing heavy as a panic attack now, tugging at the collar of his flannel, his undershirt, fingers clumsy, seams tearing, ends up bending forward, throwing his hands behind his head and hauling them off from the back. Dean helps him.

“Yeah, lemme see,” he hears himself gabbling, and is dumbstruck when Sam lies back, the full length of him naked and dangerously flushed. “Jesus, Sam.” 

“What?”

Dean starts up again. Now he can see the muscles shudder in Sam's belly, the wave of his abs, his endless torso and the bloom and swell of his pecs, his shoulders, his biceps. 

“They got no idea what they're missing out on,” he says, and Sam blinks at him, befuddled.

“Who?”

Everyone in the goddamn world, Dean would say, but he doesn't like the thought of it anymore, anyone else getting to see this; he's selfish about it now, colossally, chokingly selfish, taking every second and burying it down deep, while he still can. His wrist is beginning to strain on the bad angle, his neck twinge, and he's starting to worry about the state of his brother's dick and the state of the viagra on speed that's running his brother's body, getting into his cells, his big heart, his unbeatable brain. 

He's starting to worry that a handjob isn't going to do the trick.

He shifts, straddles Sam's thighs, braces a fist on the bed by his ribs, keeps his hand moving. He's leaning over Sam and the thrusts of Sam's hips feel different now, like he's straining up to meet Dean.

Sam turns his head to the side and swallows hard, fucking beautiful with the sharp line of his jaw and the perfect curve of his neck. His voice is on the verge of breaking.

“Can I touch, please.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, not really listening, and Sam turns back and reaches up with his shocking unafraid hands and grabs Dean's face, bandage on his palm rough against Dean's skin, holds him still as he jerks back involuntarily so Dean can't escape his gaze, fevered and dark.

“Lotta guys wanna fuck your mouth, Dean?” Sam says, coarse and sore as sandpaper, and Dean doesn't like that, he doesn't let that happen but maybe he would now, he has no idea, and Sam won't stop, he won't shut up. “Everyone who sees you. Like you were built for it.” 

His hands crush on either side of Dean's head and Dean is petrified for a moment that he might push Dean down and force it, and it must show because Sam drops him with a curious deathly wail and starts writhing under him, pressing at Dean's chest, trying to swipe him to the side, kicking a little and Dean can't manage it, has to let Sam's dick go in case he hurts him, and before Sam can push him right off and run he drops his full weight down, tries to catch Sam's flailing limbs.

“Stop. Stop.”

“Dean this is so bad, you can't,” Sam gasps, and still his hips are rutting up against Dean, and Dean is so hard too and it feels great, he scrabbles at his belt and fly and gets them skin to skin, lost for an age in that frantic game with his jeans awkward around his thighs, mouth smashed against the dip of Sam's shoulder and Sam's hands dug into his asscheeks, trying to maximise contact. 

Heat. Sweat. The thick smell of their arousal rising up to him. 

It's never gonna be enough for what's happening with Sam and Dean is clearing his head piece by piece when Sam stills entirely and says Dean's name. He is very quiet, and very serious. 

Dean doesn't give himself time to think, leans over to his bag for lube and condom and loses the rest of his clothes and comes back to Sam with his mind free and his heart bolting like a deer with wolves on its tail. Sam shoves and kicks the bedclothes down to the end of the bed and flips Dean onto his stomach with a terrifying contained power that has Dean reaching for his own dick, hand still wet with Sam's pre-come, jacking himself rapidly until Sam reaches a hand under and stops him. His erection is pressing into Dean's flank, shifting with the mindless jerk of Sam's hips. Dean can't breathe. Sam pressed against him head to heels, slippery with sweat, hotter than blood, his breath puffing the back of Dean's neck. 

“I don't know if I can stop,” Sam says, sounding anxious, a little more like himself and Dean slams up hard against the limit of what he can take from this night.

“Fuckin' hurry then,” he snarls. “Get it over with.”

Sam backs off, breathing queerly. Withdraws entirely and Dean can't feel him at all, just the dip and roll of the bed and he's left lying there on his stomach, humiliated, crawling with anguish. Jesus wept, what is he doing, how did he get here.

Sound of hand on flesh. Sam's – Sam's fucking jacking off and Dean can't see, Dean can't help him. And he has to stop. If he comes like that. Dean can't take another go around. This is killing him as it is.

“Close your eyes,” Sam says.

Dean has his face pressed into the mattress and his lips move against the sheets in another snarl. He doesn't need Sam's advice. He's not happy about this, and Sam is still jerking off looking down at him and Dean's never done that before, never in his life turned his back on a guy like this, and it's a feral raging feeling, howling through him, wiping out his sense, his hips pumping helplessly, seeking friction.

He hauls on all his will, slows himself, balls his hands into fists and rests his forehead on them. He feels like he could throw up, and Sam is just sitting there, he's just sitting there when Dean needs him so bad. 

“For fuck's sake,” he says, and it sounds like he's begging more than anything.

“Shh,” Sam says, and moves finally, swoops a hand down Dean's spine. “It's okay.” 

Sam's got back some kind of control, Dean realises, carving himself down into something gentler with that iron will of his. That's Dean's brother.

“It's okay,” Sam repeats, voice tight. “It's just some guy from a bar.”

Sam reaches up and grabs a pillow, hooks his fingers into Dean's hipbone and lifts him enough to shove the pillow under him and as Dean's shifting to make this bearable Sam gets his knees apart and kneels between them.

“Some stranger. Where I can't see you.”

Sound of the lube bottle and Dean spares a brief prayer of thanks that Sam apparently knows this much, that he's not going to go in raw. But he wastes no time on anything pretty, smooths his hand slippery up Dean's thigh, brushes the back of his balls and presses a finger in, nearly launching Dean off the bed.

“Fuck, Sam,” he gasps, scrabbling, and Sam presses him down with his free hand on the back of Dean's shoulders, heavy as the word of God.

“It's not me,” Sam says and keeps pushing into Dean. “Just some guy you've picked up. Brought back here.” 

He sets up an easy little rhythm that kills Dean's boner and then resurrects it fast enough that Dean loses all connection with his brain, muscles turning rubbery, his mouth open and his tongue on rough ugly sheets.

“What do they look like, Dean?” Sam says, and Dean mouths nonsense into the mattress, unable to process. “How do you like them? Do you have any standards at all?”

Sam shifts his angle and tries another finger. Dean grits his teeth and grimaces and feels Sam lean down over him, heat blasting off his chest.

“If I knew who they were,” Sam whispers in his ear, “I'd kill them.”

Dean groans like he's been shot and bucks back into Sam's hand, trying to get him deeper and Sam's teeth close on the muscle of his shoulder, worrying at it like a terrier, setting sparks off all down Dean's spine.

“They're tall,” Dean gasps, and Sam rears back. “Younger.”

“Dean,” Sam says, voice high and almost frightened, he's all over the place, Dean can't keep track, he can't make this better. He reaches behind and presses at Sam's back until Sam lowers his hips and his dick skids along the meat of Dean's ass, Sam's fingers twisting and withdrawing too suddenly.

Tear of a condom wrapper. 

“More lube,” he gasps, panic rising again. Sam dribbles some down the crack of his ass, smears and spreads with his blunt thumb sliding easy into Dean, all the way and then quick as Dean has that it's gone and Dean has Sam's dick instead, stretching him open with Sam's arm locking in across his shoulders and around his neck and Sam's thighs spreading his apart, penetrated and held and completely at his brother's mercy.

Sam can't wait, Dean knows that with some distant beneficent understanding, but he's never been like this before, never had someone with Sam's strength, never let himself get trapped like this and Sam is big and this has all gone way too fast for him to ever be able to wrap his brain around; he gets the distinct grasping feeling that this going to be the end of his life as he knows it, no going back from this, his brother pressing in in bright little bursts and the noises he's making in Dean's ear.

It fucking hurts, but he's felt enough pain in his life to know that it's the kind that'll turn the corner and he's already dependant on the full heavy burn of it, this whole night spun right out of his control with Dean's hands on the wheel but now there's no room for anything in the world but the savage pleasure of his body giving way to his brother, giving up to his brother and the hard truth of Sam's need as he stops pressing in and just holds there. His arm is slippery with sweat underneath Dean's jaw.

He stalls long enough that it's unbearable. Dean has no idea what's going on in Sam's head. 

“What – what–” Dean pants.

“Are you okay?” Strangled.

“Yes, fuck, come on.”

“You made a –” Sam loses his voice and thrusts deeper and Dean tilts his hips into it as much as he can with his brother's weight pressing him down. “A noise.”

Dean has no memory of any goddamn noises and he doesn't fucking care either. He puts his forehead on the mattress and curls his fingers in the sheets and spreads his legs more and like that they're on, Sam's hips snapping back and in again, ferocious. A brutal fast fuck, Dean can't breathe quick enough to keep up with it, can't set up his own rhythm, Sam resettling his weight for more leverage and punching thin high whimpers out of him. 

Sam is taken over by whatever's going through his veins but something in Dean is rising to meet it, something all-natural, something that comes only from in him and it's huge and it's the equal of anything his brother could throw at him, any evil bitch, what Dean has in him could consume the universe so greedy he is for this feeling, Sam undeniable in him, wrapped around him, burning him out from the inside. He arches his back more, and Sam hits his prostate and he makes a noise then, hell of a crazy ravening noise and Sam leans right back and fucks him boneless, bed shuddering and creaking, enough power in him that Dean has to stretch an arm up to stop from hitting the bed head.

It's getting away from them, marathon now. Sam's fingers leaving bruises on his neck and hips; he's maybe too far gone even to come, and Dean's pretty tough but he's starting to tap his reserves. They can't keep it up. 

“Come on Sam,” he rasps, barely recognising his own voice. “You want it?” 

“Please, yes,” Sam begs, hitching, wretched with frustration.

“Me too Sammy, come on.”

Sam moans and pulls out suddenly and Dean has only a second to feel gutpunched and empty before he's on his back and Sam has Dean's legs over his shoulders and is slamming home again. His face is twisted with pain, shining with sweat, his eyes squeezed shut. 

Dean reaches up and locks his fingers around the back of his brother's head, twists in his hair until Sam slows and stops and opens his eyes, bright and blown and desperate with something Dean knows, something he recognises with a deep clarion tug in the centre of his chest.

“Hey,” he says, overawed. “I'm here, I'm here. Let's do this, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam whispers, gaze fixed on Dean's, and starts back up slowly, almost reverently, and the tease and rebuild spins Dean out and away, gets him thinking less about the end of the world and more about the beginning of it; as Sam speeds up again and gets the bed moving under them Dean is thinking about taking his brother to the back seat of his car, to some strong pillowy mattress, about getting his mouth on every inch of Sam, about blowing him, rimming him, getting his turn to make Sam writhe and thrash, about teaching him to take Dean's dick and love it. Dean is thinking that he would like to have his brother anywhere and any time, the long road good and sure beneath their feet in life and death and no witch or angel or demon that could tear them apart ever again.

“Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, swallows hard and bends his knees, pulls himself up a fraction and gets Sam sliding home neat and tight and perfect, better than the best Dean's ever had.

“It's you.”

“Yeah Sammy,” Dean pants, looking down, and Christ, past his own aching dick that's his brother's pounding in and out, wet and huge and Dean's taking him easy now, never thought he could take anyone this easy and have it be so good, strong and heavy and pushing him apart until every nerve is on fire with it.

“No. I mean it's you.” 

Dean looks back up. Sam is trembling, under the strain and the strength of his arousal he's still afraid and Dean winds his fingers tighter in Sam's hair and pulls him down for a brief chaste kiss, speaks softly against his brother's lips.

“Yeah, Sam. I know. I want you to come now, okay?”

Sam drops his head and grunts, high and wounded, like Dean's gutted him, fucks Dean twice more and comes, Dean can feel it, in the stagger of his hips, and Dean gets a hand to his own dick and strips himself as fast as he can, desperate to come with his brother still inside him and he's so close it's easy, he's shooting while Sam's muscles are still locked in orgasm and they shift together a final greedy time as Dean bucks under the overwhelming strain of it, the total collapse of Sam's strength and his core-deep rumbling groan of relief that rolls through Dean, wiping him out, taking everything with it. 

But they can't stay in the comedown. It hurts to pry his knees off Sam's shoulders, muscles and joints frozen and crying with warning, but it hurts too much to stay in that position too and the movement pushes Sam away. Sam ducks his head and grabs himself and the rubber, pulling out slowly, leaving Dean clenching his jaw against that searing empty ache and Sam makes an aborted, distressed noise and puts his hand to where they joined, covers Dean over like he can't bear to look.

It's an unexpectedly tender move and it squeezes Dean's heart past the point of no return.

“Sam,” he says, and Sam looks up at him, sorry and sorrowful, cheeks still red, hair dark and wild and sticking in strands. Dean brushes one away from his mouth. “It's okay.”

“How can –”

“It's me and it's you,” Dean says, and it's all that needs to be said, clear song of joy now ringing through his bones, as this breakneck night slows down to the space between breaths, the growing wondering shine of Sam's eyes and the falling distance between their bodies, as he gathers his brother into his arms and brings him down to rest, sweat cooling on Sam's brow and poison fading in his veins leaving nothing there but blood, but Sam, braced with him as the turning world comes on to its end and the road brings down their doom: not lost tonight, and not to be lost again. 

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this one faster than I am usually capable of. Feedback/concrit welcome.
> 
> [Rebloggable tumblr link for those so inclined.](http://nigeltde-fic.tumblr.com/post/136251692946/two-pieces-of-the-gallows-5168-words-by-nigeltde)


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